In the convulsions of the commodity economy, we begin to recognize the monuments of the bourgeoisie as ruins even before they have crumbled.
In the world's structure dream loosens individuality like a bad tooth.
All great works of literature either dissolve a genre or invent one.
To be happy is to be able to become aware of oneself without fright.
To the lover the loved one always appears as solitary.
The work of memory collapses time.